


Bug Zapper!

by hazbinhearts



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Electrocution, Implied/Referenced Torture, It's really not that graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:21:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26026378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hazbinhearts/pseuds/hazbinhearts
Summary: Vox finds a butterfly to pin to the wall.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 13





	Bug Zapper!

**Author's Note:**

> Important stuff: dialog done in full italics is happening in the future, and you should check out [this reference art](https://twitter.com/hazbinhearts/status/1296666632954077184) for what he looks like, because it's slightly different from canonical Vox!

_"You don't really **draw it out,** huh?"_

_"No, not really."_

Two thin rectangular vents on either side of Vox's screen lower to release heat, cooling him down, icing him over with the calm in the eye of the hurricane. The muted tap of his shoes across the cement floor echo in the warehouse, smelling of wet concrete and rotting wood. He advances at a reasonable pace, despite the fact that he's hardly tired of playing cat and mouse, darting to and fro at the speed of light to chase his prey. It's just that the game is coming to an abrupt end, as it always does, and he's not going to expend more energy on this pathetic little _thing_.

The blue-tinged back light of his display and the red flicker of his eye bounce off of boxes and walls, shelves and fixtures, as the Overlord prowls the half-empty aisles of the abandoned storing house. His hands are stuffed into his pockets almost leisurely, and his gait is _comfortable_ , if anything. He picks up on the sound of shuffling and breathing somewhere to his right, and turns his attention there for a moment, then left. His gaze drifts up the rust-soaked walls and to a long window on the second floor.

_"No fun if you don't play with 'em though."_

_"It's not really about the fun, Valentino."_

Vox squints irritably into a cabinet located against a wall. It's only a few moments before he's done a rudimentary job of getting dead things back to life. He turns to face the window, caked with dirt, overlooking the warehouse in its former glory. He places a single claw against the boxy monitor, and the system crackles to life. He uses his opposite hand to flip the switch on the old desk mic, hearing an instantaneous snarl of feedback and ignoring how it offends his sensibilities.

"Testing, testing." 

His voice rings out, impatience in his tone, over the wide room in front of him. It booms with a definitive authority, despite the cheap speakers installed overhead. He attributes that to his own powerful cadence.

"One, two, three. Oh, good."

Vox sees his prey skitter across the room. He stifles a laugh and taps the chunky wire on the desk, sending a small blue spark through it, and exits the room.

_"Then what the fuck is it about?"_

_"I don't know, sending a message? Weeding out the rabble? Taking care of pest control?"_

_"You are a tightass."_

"Ladies and gentlemen! Rebels and vagrants! Tonight, we've got a fantastic show for you." His voice rings out through the film of old age coating the sound system, bravado high and intentions six feet below. He is on the prowl again, weaving through aisles, being silent as the grave with his monitor dim and his claws entirely devoid of that signature electric blue. His mouth moves, but the sound he makes isn't ringing through his own head.

"As you know, here in Hell, we've already died once. Can't do it again! Not by each others hands, that is. No, I'm afraid murder is left to the Angels, isn't it? So there's nothing to fear! And without fear, what are we left to do with ourselves? What entertainment can come without a little _fright?_ " He swears he can hear a pin drop in this place now that he's started gabbing. Stupid motherfucker. Like _silence_ will save him.

"The smarter among you will know that death is _not_ the thing you should fear!" His voice climbs up at the end, a grand and cheerful declaration. He spins around a corner and sees his victim there, pressed against the thick steel wall, trapped into a corner. It's a miserable sight: a trembling little butterfly, eyes wide with fear and drugs, pupils dilated so far up it can't be comfortable. Sickly torn brown wings, a missing antennae, and eyes swollen from spilling tears some minutes prior don't help make him appeal to anything Vox would find to pity in another demon.

"It's **_the absence of death_**." Vox purrs it out, his voice abruptly more machine than man, coming no longer from the many speakers overhead, but simply the ones built into his monitor. 

_"I don't wanna hear it. I get my shit done."_

_"Would it double-kill you to lighten up? Fuck, it's like-"_

_"It's like you don't have anything to talk about or something. Are you hurting for money, is that it?"_

_"Oh **fuck** you, Vox. You don't know how to play, I'm tellin' you, you'd benefit. Try it." _

Vox approaches his prey with intent to do far more than harm. He walks with methodical footfalls, unbuttoning his suit jacket and letting it swing open to reveal the deep red waistcoat beneath. The air snaps and crackles with a sudden audible, _visible_ electricity, surging around his glowing clawtips and rushing up his arms. He grabs the butterfly demon by the throat, leaning his screen in close and speaking soft, sick, and twisted against the background of choking and screaming and struggling.

"What's your name?" Predictably, no answer. He can't, really, he's practically mindless by this point. His body is jerking and shuddering with the effort of movement as the electricity pulses through him, encourages his near-lifeless body to wiggle and shake like a terrible impression of a dance.

"Don't got one? That's a shame. Might've considered going easy on you if I liked it." Vox shrugs, and with a snap, [music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h8iPUK0AGRo) comes on over the cruddy speakers in the warehouse.

The TV demon's movements are immediately flowing and rhythmic as he walks his new little friend through the building's space. He has an arm wrapped around the demon's waist and another holding his hand with their fingers entwined, ignoring his anguished hissing and gurgling, his bulging eyes and sizzling skin where his fur is being singed off. The demon's shoes dangle uselessly above the ground, as he's quite a bit shorter than the Overlord, but that suits him fine, nothing drags and that helps him.

Vox's electricity is hopping and bouncing off of him, occasionally off of the floor or passing fixtures and walls, in order to knock the insect's limbs in the right direction. Halfway through, the crooning voice from above picks up and Vox can't help but mouth every word of the song he's familiar with. He begins in a wide-arcing, dramatic West Coast Swing with the victim of his ire, continuing to funnel energy into him to encourage his body to move in the way he wants it to, not concerned at all by the sudden nudity of the lesser demon's clothing having fried to bits by now as sparks and flickers find his muscles to manipulate.

_"You need to learn your fucking place, Valentino. You just got here. I've **been** here."_

_"Yeah, you've been here and you ain't gotten that stick outta your ass in all this time, that's what I hear. Blood under your nails is only a good thing, you know."_

_"I know, thank you, now will you fucking order? I'm leaving if you keep this shit up."_

With a flourish, Vox drops the butterfly demon into the rickety old chair, barely watching to make sure he hits the surface before he's walking a few feet away to pluck the duct tape from a nearby table. He is in a solo act now, no need for a partner to dance along with him, his shoes tap-tap-tapping along the floor, shuffles and ball-changes, a balancing act on his toes. He uses a back riff walk to twirl the duct tape in circles around the sinner, securing him to the chair quite well several layers down. For good measure, he applies a strip to his mouth, pats his head, and gently sets the circle of tape in his lap. By this time, the butterfly demon is quite well and passed out, of course, so there's nothing holding him upright but the tape in question, and Vox doesn't get the satisfaction of doing something as silly as he'd like, such as leaving the roll on his head.

"Well!" He claps his hands together, a bright, erratic smile on his face, looking at his target. "I think we've learned not to go snooping where we don't belong, don't you? ...Aw, a _live studio audience_ woulda been swell, but I guess we'll do without." From his monitor speakers comes that 'live studio audience' laughter he wanted so much, and he heaves a long sigh as it fades into nothing.

Vox buttons his jacket back up and heads for the heavy exit doors, letting the song loop over indefinitely, echoes of an era dissipating along with his playful mood.

Back to work.


End file.
